


"the coldest night, of the coldest year..."

by Anonymous



Series: low, keep your head, keep your head low [3]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Crying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Panic Attacks, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Respawn, Self-Esteem Issues, Some Fluff, Temporary Character Death, Villain Schlatt, Villain Wilbur, Wings, in which i beat the shit out of quackity, in which phil adopts another child, ish, it's. minecraft., no beta we die like wilbur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27710126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "...comes right before the spring"Quackity was not stupid.(Or, six months after Schlatt's downfall, Quackity learns to fly again.)Can be read as a standalone but probably best to read the first two.(title from 'doubt comes in', hadestown)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Alexis | Quackity & Phil Watson, Alexis | Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Series: low, keep your head, keep your head low [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994845
Comments: 36
Kudos: 385
Collections: Anonymous





	"the coldest night, of the coldest year..."

**Author's Note:**

> *shakes bottle of quackity angst* come get yalls juice

Contrary to popular belief, Quackity was not stupid.

People might think otherwise, might jeer at him when he found numbers overwhelming, or when he said dumb shit or when he acted like he had no more than five working braincells.

(Or when he stayed by Schlatt’s side despite everything.)

That was all a persona. All in good fun. No, Quackity was smart. He’d made that deal, he’d won the election, he’d campaigned long and hard, he’d come up with the law book, he’d ironed out all the loopholes in the rules that were written, he’d dealt with the mountains of work that he was given during his stint as Vice President. Quackity wasn’t stupid in the slightest.

Which was why, on the day Phil announced the second election for a new president, Quackity had sped home, had locked the doors and burrowed underneath his covers, trying to ward off the memories that came with thinking about Schlatt. On three separate occasions, someone had knocked on his door. He knew why. They wanted some kind of helpful tip, some guidance for if they did win.

He didn’t want to be the one to give it to them, considering the circumstances around his time in office.

(He’d rather die than go back.)

Quackity had hidden in his house for three days straight, curled up in a blanket on his bed, not even leaving to eat.

On the fourth day, Phil had sent him a message, asking him to meet on one of the hills outside of the country for flying lessons.

Quackity had forgotten about those and had scrambled out of bed, still drowsy from sleep (and the occasional nightmare) to pull on decent looking clothes and sprint out the door, beanie lopsided on his head because he couldn’t be stuffed to do his hair. ~~He could ignore the hunger pangs anyway. Schlatt gave him enough practise with that.~~

Phil smiled at him softly, sitting down on the grassy slope. His wings, shimmery, iridescent purple-grey (almost the same colour as an enchantment spell) were out and lying limply behind him. If he stood up, the tips of those wings, which matched those of a dragonfly almost, would reach the backs of his ankles. Not good for flapping, but they could glide pretty damn well.

Quackity opened his mouth, about to go on a tirade of apologies, stopped by Phil getting to his feet and raising his hand in greeting. That shut him up, choked him off. The gesture was too much like _him_ to go ignored by his brain. “Hey there, mate! Where’ve you been?” Phil asked, concern in his eyes.

Quackity shrugged, averting his own gaze. “Home. I uh, got sick.”

Making a sympathetic face, Phil nodded understandingly. “Right, right.” He looked over Quackity, not seeming convinced. “I hope you’re well enough to fly today.”

“I am.” Quackity was quick to reassure, puffing up his feathers. His own wings were much more bird-like, and were absolutely enormous, stretching out from his shoulder blades. The primaries were coated in a silvery-green sheen and were strong and healthy now. The wings looked much better than they did all those months ago, while he was still under Schlatt.

He extended them to Phil, who gently took them in his hands and began examining the muscles, the bones and the feathers, fingers gently massaging the skin as he went along. “They’re looking better with every week!” he proclaimed, almost proudly. Quackity ducked his head, face burning.

His wings had been wrecked for a while, thanks to Schlatt.

* * *

_It had been a few days since Schlatt was elected, since he’d driven Tommy and Wilbur out. Quackity, Tubbo and Fundy were getting used to working in the White House and constantly wearing suits at Schlatt’s request. Quackity, as he usually did, slashed two neat holes in the back of his clothes so that his wings could fit through them as he did with all of his clothes._

_Schlatt confronted him the morning after he’d worn that suit for the first time._

_“What the fuck did you do?” he asked, an undercurrent of a growl present in his voice._

_Quackity tilted his head at him in confusion. “Sir?”_

_Schlatt rolled his eyes and pointed to the wings, in their resting position, the way he was supposed to have them if he wasn’t either flying or lying down. “You_ ruined _the suit I got you!”_

_He sounded genuinely upset. Quackity winced. “It’s for my wings, sir.”_

_Something like disappointment crossed his face._ (Quackity had no clue then about how much he’d see that expression directed at him in the following months.) _“Can’t you tuck them in instead of ripping holes in these clothes? I invested so much money into them and I can’t have you discredit all of the effort I took into buying it,” he ranted._

_Quackity nodded along. “I can tuck them in, sir, but not for long periods of time. And, uh, if I do that under the shirt, the wings’ll just rip them open again.”_

_“Then tie ‘em up. Do I have to think of solutions to everything, around here?”_

_He shook his head furiously. “I can’t do that,” he said earnestly. “Or it’ll hurt them badly.”_

_Quackity wasn’t stupid in the slightest. He knew was muscle entropy was, knew what disuse and deterioration could to do them. If it got too bad, he might never fly again. Schlatt just grit his teeth loudly, grinding them together. The sound echoed around Quackity’s skull. “That is an_ order, _Quackity.”_

_“But, sir—” Something snapped in the president. He spun around, grabbed the front of his Vice’s shirt and slammed him into the wall, hard. Yelping, Quackity’s hands enclosed around Schlatt’s wrists, tugging at them in alarm. “Schlatt!”_

_“When I fucking tell you to do something, you do it! No questions asked,” he snarled._

_“Y-yes sir,” he stammered as Schlatt let go. His hands were shaking._

_Looking satisfied, the president nodded at him. “Good. I’ll send you another suit. If I see those fucking wings again tomorrow, there will be repercussions.”_

_And so, Quackity began to fold up his wings and bind them in that position close to his torso. The pain wasn’t so bad. He could manage it._

_He knew though, that when that ache had ceased weeks later, something was very, very wrong._

* * *

“Thanks si—Phil,” he muttered, correcting himself before he let anything slip. Phil let go of the wing he was examining. His own flared into existence, something magical humming through the air as they began to pulse lilac, and he was reminded of how different they were.

Quackity was born for the skies. His family was too. He grew up knowing how to take care of his wings, how to comb through the down to dislodge any loose feathers, the exercises he was supposed to do to keep them in top shape for the days he wasn’t flying. He was taught flight by his parents, with a safety net so he wouldn’t plummet to his death. His wings were a permanent fixture on his body, attached to him with bone, muscle and sinew.

Phil had fought for the right to join the birds in the skies. He’d slain a dragon and had explored a realm of islands floating above the endless void to find purple buildings that reached the black sky above him. He’d climbed aboard a ship and had stolen those wings, had fought enemies as he did so. Those wings fused with him and attached themselves to his very soul. They could pop in and out of existence, as their fragility made it hard to constantly keep in the overworld. Where they went to, when Phil didn’t want them, he had no clue. He’d taught himself flight, taught himself not to fear falling or flying.

They were different in so many ways. But united in the sense that flight was a part of who they were. The sky was something deep-rooted in their instincts. An old friend for Phil. Family for Quackity.

So when Phil asked, “Ready?” with a knowing smirk, Quackity grinned and leapt up immediately, wings pumping quickly to get himself up high in the air. Phil gave him a head-start, but as soon as Quackity had cleared trees, Phil leapt up, and in the blink of an eye, joined him, insect wings buzzing so fast that they became a purple blur.

It was a competition of theirs to get as high as they could before breathing became difficult and then gliding down slowly, watching the world rush past below them.

“Race you, old man!” Quackity yelled over the wind. He couldn’t hear Phil’s incredulous response over the wind, but felt him speed up alongside him. With a shout of laughter, he dove suddenly, before tilting his wings and riding the current back up. Adrenaline drove him forward. He could take on the world.

“Good one, mate!” Phil yelled, and Quackity’s stomach swooped.

 _(“You’re fucking_ useless, _you know that?” Schlatt slapped him across the cheek._

_Quackity nodded at the floor, eyes burning with tears he couldn’t shed. “Yes sir.”_

_“Ender, I have to do everything around here. Just—” Schlatt kneaded his temple with his fingers, “just get outta my sight. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” He stunk of alcohol._

_Quackity backed out of the room, taking a second to glance at the spilt ink on the table, ice washing over his stomach. He could only pray that he’d still be alive by tomorrow morning. ~~He wouldn’t be.~~ )_

“Thanks!” he said back, voice a little croaky. Phil didn’t seem to notice. Thank fuck.

They flew over the garden next. The blackstone podium was long gone, the last of it lost to a random lava pool. Maybe a little bit dramatic, but no one had complained at the time. Besides, it wasn’t like blackstone was hard to find either.

Below him, figures waved at him, a little blurry from the tears that formed because of the high-speed winds that had been slamming into his face. He waved back, wobbling slightly while paused mid-air. The figure started screaming at him, and with a wide grin, he realised that it was Tommy.

“Fuck yeah Big Q!” The shout morphed into a high-pitched screech as Phil picked him up effortlessly. Tommy, absolutely terrified out of his mind, clung onto his brother for dear life.

Quackity took that as a challenge, eyes zeroing in on Tubbo and plucking him off the ground, thanking Ender that he was fairly light. Tubbo didn’t struggle or panic either, to his credit, but whooped and cheered as they sped along. “Why don’t we do this more?” he asked Quackity, words nearly drowned out by the noise. He smiled tightly, blinking back the memories.

* * *

_“Why did you fucking_ kill _him?” Quackity screamed, voice filled with raw grief and rage._

_Schlatt shrugged with a manic little smile. “I didn’t kill him. Technoblade did.” The name alone brought a shiver up his spine. “Besides,” he continued with a smirk, a sip of whatever alcoholic drink he’d decided to open for the occasion, “traitors get what they deserve.” A bitter smile._

_For the first time since they’d been elected, Quackity saw_ red. _Tubbo, who’d always had the patience to deal with his bullshit, Tubbo who asked if he was okay after a respawn, Tubbo who tried to look out for him whenever he could._

 _Tubbo who was the little brother Quackity had needed in those months. “Fuck you,” he spat, shaking like a leaf. The logical part of his brain was screaming at him, screaming to_ run run run! _But Quackity would not run from this. Not when Tubbo’s lifeless, bloodied corpse was still branded into his mind. “I’m not doing this anymore. I fucking_ quit. _Get yourself a new Vice.” Someone stupid enough to take the job willingly._

_Schlatt laughed and shook his head. “Fucking idiot. You really think you’re gonna just waltz on outta here?”_

_“Yeah, actually,” he shot back. He was gonna waltz outta there and he was gonna join Tubbo and apologise a thousand times for not stopping the execution. “You’ve used me and hurt me and degraded me every fucking day since the election!” His wings itched and he could picture the thick scar at their base, the agony that followed the memory. “And you just made a fucking sixteen-year-old plan his own funeral.” To his credit, Quackity’s voice didn’t break and he felt silent, vicious pleasure at the way Schlatt’s face twisted. “I’m fucking done, Schlatt. I can’t do this anymore.” He smiled hollowly. “I’ll leave the suit at your bedroom door if it means that much to you. Goodbye, Schlatt.”_

_He turned to the door, heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribcage. His wings were fluttering against their bonds, struggling to get free. “Quackity, you’re nothing without me. You realise that, right?” Schlatt said smoothly. He stopped, a foot away from the polished oak door._

_His palms were sweating. “That’s not true,” he muttered, fingernails digging into his palm._

_“You can go off to fucking, Ender what do they call it…Pogtopia! You could go off to Pogtopia, you could go off and suck off whoever you need to get in.” Quackity flinched, inhaling sharply._

_“Shut up—” he started, choked, nausea rising in his stomach at the words._

_“But!” Schlatt’s words overpowered his own. “The truth is, they’ll never accept you like I did. They’ll just see a snivelling, whining coward.”_

_“Stop.”_

_“They’ll see,” he pressed on, “exactly what I saw when I first met you.” He laughed, low and dark. “I’ll be honest, you’ve barely changed. But, I’ve made you tolerable, at least.”_

_Quackity’s lip quivered. Wilbur hated him, didn’t he? And Tommy. He helped kick them out of ~~L’~~ Manberg after all. “That’s not true.” His voice was small, even to his own ears. _

_“We both know better.” Silence stretched itself over the room, silence in which Quackity found himself marinating in his own doubt. Because why would anyone with a right mind take him in? Tubbo had ~~friends~~ allies to fall back onto. And so did Fundy. And George. _

_But Quackity was hopelessly, stupidly, crushingly alone. He had no one, except for Schlatt. The thought made him want to curl up into a tight ball and cry. “I…” he begun, throat closing off before he could get the words out._

_“I’ll see you in my office tomorrow with that report, Quackity. Be on time. Shut the door on your way out.” When he began to walk out, stiffly and softly, he felt the day-old bruises all over his body and blinked back the tears._

_He hated himself almost as much as he hated it when Schlatt was right._

* * *

~~He was shaking. Why was he shaking?~~

Tubbo received a half-hearted shrug in response, and giggled to himself at Tommy screaming bloody murder in perfect harmony with Phil’s desperate attempts to get him to stop clinging onto him like a goddamn koala.

Phil led the way toward Eret’s castle. The king was up on the roof, anyway, reading in the sunlight. He barely spared a passing glance upward at the incoming projectiles speeding toward him at a high velocity. Quackity swooped down and dropped Tubbo onto the stone. He stood and helped steady Tommy who was still yelling curses at Phil.

“Great Ender Toms, I’m _sorry!”_ Phil bellowed back.

 _(“I’m sorry!” Quackity shrieked again over the dull_ ‘crack’ _his ribs made when Schlatt kicked at them. “Plea-please! I’m sorry!”_

 _“It’s always ‘sorry’, isn’t it?” he screamed, dropping the venom in his voice to mimic Quackity for a moment. “If you just_ did _as I_ told _none of this would’ve happened!” His suit was ruined, he realised._

 _“Please, I’ll do better! I’m sorry,_ stop! _”)_

Shaking himself out of it, Quackity shot upwards again to join the fluffy clouds, flying in tight circles that were almost corkscrews until Phil arrived, gazing at him in a concern manner. “You ready to stop?” he asked carefully.

Quackity shook his head, despite the ache in his wings.

* * *

_It was a week after Schlatt was taken out of the server. Quackity was at home, the home that wasn’t the White House, fingers absently combing through his feathers while seated on his bed. Six primaries on one wing had broken in half because of the suit, and the other wing looked even worse for wear. Those feathers lay on the floor, taunting him. More followed suit._

_He wished that his family was there to help him. Then he vehemently shook that thought from his head. His parents would’ve been beyond disappointed if they’d seen him then._

_As soon as the wings looked somewhat presentable, he gingerly lifted them off the bed, wincing at the stabbing pains that shot through them._

_“Okay,” he muttered to himself. Take it slow. Just a few exercises and then he could sleep._

_Gently, he stretched out his wings as far as they could go._

_Immediately, Quackity was overwhelmed with shooting, burning agony that coursed across his skin, that ripped open his bones. His muscles screamed out in anguish, and his mouth opened to do this same even as his wings went limp and loose, the tips hitting the floor with a ‘_ thunk!’ _. Muffling a sob in his pillow, he tried to quell the pure terror he felt in that moment. Ender, was this what Schlatt had planned for? Did he do all that so Quackity would never be able to fly again?_

_No. He wouldn’t stand for that. Schlatt could take everything from him, but he couldn’t take his wings. ~~He already has.~~_

_Quackity stood up, ignoring the way that they dragged along on the floor, too weak and frail to even hold up their own weight. He stuffed his sleeve into his mouth, and, after a count of three, extended them as far as they could go and flapped once._

_He nearly blacked out from the pain._

_He fell, because that was what birds did when they couldn’t fly anymore. Fell onto the floor in a heap of dark clothes, loose down and more tears._

_Ender he was so fucking_ stupid.

_Curling up, Quackity huddled under one of his broken, useless wings, hiding away from the world._

_(Tubbo found him (shivering, twitching, starving, worthless) two days later, and once he’d gotten the story out of Quackity, he’d called Phil, who’d taken him to the medbay to fix. Half the time, he’d been knocked out cold to spare him the agony of resetting bones.)_

_And there was Quackity, months later, learning to fly again like when he was little. He wished he could go back though, and fix past mistakes._

* * *

“We should probably head down!” Quackity said over the wind, gesturing at the gathering storm clouds.

Phil nodded tersely. Strong winds, as a matter of fact, did not merge well with paper-thin insect wings.

They dove toward the ground, now flying only a few feet over the tops of most buildings. At that level, they could comfortably skim over most landmarks and see other people, who were beginning to head inside in preparation for the bad weather.

“Hey! Hey, look at me you fucking fossil!” a voice said suddenly.

Phil’s head snapped toward the source, relaxing when it was just Wilbur being Wilbur. He hadn’t donned his L’Manberg uniform yet which was decidedly odd, instead holding onto the ratty old trench coat, mended and well worn. “What the fuck do you want, Wil?”

_(“The fuck are you looking at?”_

_“Schlatt…please…” he choked out, blood bubbling in his throat. The president walked past his broken body with a cackle._

_“You brought this upon yourself.”)_

“Guess, bitch!”

Phil rolled his eyes. “I am _not_ rigging the votes in your favour! That’s fraud, idiot!”

“Coward!”

“Dumbass!”

“And here I was thinking I was the favourite child.”

Phil’s eye twitched. “ _I’m your brother you fucking idiot!”_

“Semantics.” Only then did Wilbur raise his hand in absent greeting toward Quackity, which he returned hesitantly.

There was something icy between the two since the election. Wilbur blamed Quackity for everything that had happened during and afterwards, had blamed Quackity on Schlatt’s presidency and his banishment ever since Schlatt was taken away. It wasn’t a problem though. Everyone else seemed to accept him (mostly due to Tubbo, George and Fundy vouching for him).

But Wilbur couldn’t be convinced. He didn’t exactly blame him either.

* * *

_In the hours after the explosion and Schlatt’s flight, Quackity had been working, scrounging around for healing potions and helping move heavy slabs of blackstone into piles._

_He was (unfortunately) used to the effects of respawn from his time under Schlatt, and didn’t bat an eye to the heaviness in his muscles or the fuzziness in his head, instead moving to wherever he was needed and doing everything he was asked of in a robotic manner. He couldn’t quite get the mirth that lit up his former boss’s eyes just before the world exploded around him, the cruel grin, the wink that preceded unimaginable heat and pain and terror out of his head._

_As much as Quackity had wanted to drop down and weep in the exhaustion and fear that consumed him when he heard Niki admit openly that Schlatt was missing, that he was gone, that he could come back, he needed to keep working._

_~~What if Schlatt came back and took him away where no one could hear him scream?~~ _

_He was one of the lucky ones, however. Fundy, Tommy and Tubbo were all out of commission. Techno, George and Niki were nursing minor injuries and Sapnap was still in respawn. Quackity wasn’t dumb enough not to count his blessings._

_It was misfortune, just a big fuck-up on Quackity’s part that he found himself digging through the same pile of rubble as Wilbur. Wilbur who’d just lost his land and needed to rebuild completely. Wilbur who he’d helped in kicking out. Wilbur, who hated Quackity almost as much as Schlatt did._

_A hand grasped the front of the blackened shirt. Quackity gasped sharply at the sudden contact, but could only widen his eyes and brace for the incoming fist which connected with his jaw painfully._

_“Ender, you’re fucking pathetic, huh?” Wilbur seethed. Quackity clammed up. The sensation of someone’s hands on him in this way was far too familiar. “Don’t think I didn’t see you there, pointing a fucking crossbow at her.” He gestured wildly at Niki. “You’re nothing but Schlatt’s lackey, aren’t you?” He didn’t respond to the words. Why should he? Instead, he bit his lip and braced for the hit. That apparently wasn’t the right response. “Answer me!”_

_“I-I’m not_ his _anything!” Quackity snapped. His voice sounded thready to him. Stupid. “Let go of me!”_

_Instead of letting go, Wilbur shoved him to the ground with a sneer. “Liar.” His foot reared back, and for a second, it wasn’t Wilbur that was standing above him menacingly. Quackity let out a tiny whimper, shutting his eyes and protecting his chest with his arms. Fundy and Tubbo were knocked out and George was still grieving. He was alone to face Wilbur’s wrath._

_“Wilbur!” a new voice said sharply. The new guy, Phil, placed a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder, expression livid. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he muttered, low enough for only them to hear._

_“He’s part of the enemy, Phil! We should send him away with Schlatt!”_

_Oh Ender, Quackity could vomit at the thought. Scrabbling upwards desperately, trying to get a grasp on the floor with bits of broken glass piercing his hands, he locked eyes with Phil. “Please,” he said in a rush, words flying out of his mouth. “N-not with him, please, I’ll do anything!” he blubbered, unable to stop himself. Something wicked shone in Wilbur’s eye._

_Phil turned to glare at his brother. “Go help Eret,” he ordered quietly. Sighing, Wil went off to fulfill his request. Phil turned back to Quackity and knelt down to his level. “When you say ‘him’, you’re talking about Schlatt, right?” Quackity nodded cautiously. “Are you afraid of him?” Another nod. Phil hesitated. “Has he hurt you in any way?”_

_There it was. “He got mad at me a bunch,” he mumbled. “It was mostly my fault.” Why was he trying to defend Schlatt?_

_Phil pursed his lips and held out a hand. “Come on. You must be exhausted, yeah?” Quackity took the hand gingerly, finding himself get hauled to his feet. An arm, a gentle arm, wrapped itself around his shoulders and led him forward. “You’ve worked really hard. I think you deserve a break.” And Quackity could’ve cried at the words, so much kinder than anything Schlatt had told him._

_Phil sat him down in front of Niki, who smiled at him warmly. “Just a healing pot?”_

_“His hands, Niki.”_

_Her eyes widened as they caught sight of the glass shards embedded into his skin. Quackity hadn’t noticed. “Right. Here.” She took them in her soft ones and began to prod at the skin, drawing a wince from him. “Sorry,” she murmured apologetically. “This’ll be over soon, though, and we can get a healing potion in you.” She eyed him critically. “After that, you can sleep,” she decided._

_Phil nodded. “I’ll be leaving you.” Niki hummed and kept working._

_“Thank you,” he breathed, vision blurring together._

_She shook her head. “No. Thank_ you.” _He wasn’t sure why she was thanking him, considering that, only a few hours ago, he had held a crossbow to her head. “You helped with Karl,” Niki elaborated, jutting her chin at the guy in the colourful hoodie, wandering around aimlessly. “Sapnap, Fundy and I will never forget what you did for us.”_

_His throat closed up. Thick tears ran down his face as he remembered that night. The elation that was replaced by paralysing fear when he saw Schlatt’s expression. The brutal death that had followed. Niki leaned forward and brought him into a hug, and for the first time in months, Quackity let go and began to sob into her sweet-smelling shoulder._

_Another hand settled on his back. Initially, he flinched away from it, but when they didn’t try to hurt him, he cracked an eye open and tilted his head to stare at them. Karl, with his sunshine smile, gazed down at Quackity, taking a seat next to him. He leaned his head on Quackity’s spine, wrapping his arms around his midsection._

_The ‘thank you’ was silent, genuine. It was all that he needed._

* * *

“I’ll leave you two to your weird-ass adventures. Flying fucking freaks,” Wilbur muttered. Quackity’s gut twisted. He sounded a little too similar to Schlatt there.

Sighing, Phil flew higher, headed for the direction of the slope which they started at. “Bye Wil.”

“See ya.”

The flight back was near silent. But it was comfortable enough for Quackity to stew in his thoughts about his newfound ~~allies~~ friends and the months since Schlatt left. He was happier now. He could fly. He had people to turn to.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

Alighting on their hill, Phil pat his shoulder gently. “You did really well this time ‘round. We can build up more muscle with other exercises I’m sure you know, but you’ll be right as rain very soon at this rate.”

He couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face. “Thanks si— _Phil.”_ Phil either doesn’t notice the slipups or pretends not to. “For everything.”

“No problem, mate. I’m glad you’re doing better now.”

They stood like that, a little awkward. Phil seemed to be mulling something over in his head. As Quackity turned away, he called out to him. “Hey. Quick question?”

“Yeah, chief?”

“What happened here?” he asked, stepping forward and gently prodding a spot on the base of his left wing. Quackity didn’t need to turn around and see it for himself. He could picture the scar, thick and jagged and pale and uneven, stretching all the way around the perimeter. The feathers there never quite grew in right, leaving the skin bare and exposed. Leaving the scar very visible to people who looked a little closer than most.

He shut his eyes as the memories overtook him.

* * *

_Schlatt was_ pissed _when he found out about Tubbo fraternising with the enemy. The White House was eerily quiet, tension radiating off of every surface. He had yet to come out of his office after the screaming and cursing that had emanated from his office only an hour prior, leaving a ringing silence in its wake._

_Quackity met up with Fundy outside, Tubbo latched onto his side. The terror on his face twisted something in his gut. Ender, he was just a kid! A kid talking to his best friend! Rage flashed through him._

_He met Fundy’s eyes with silent acknowledgement of what needed to be done. Quackity knelt down and looked Tubbo in the face. He stared at him with tears in those doe eyes._

_“What’s going to happen now?” he asked hoarsely._

_Quackity put on a shaky smile for his sake. “You’re gonna go stay the night at Eret’s place with Fundy,” he said brightly, masking the terror that was crawling up his throat._

_Confusion crossed over the kid’s face. “Why not with Niki? She’ll hide us!”_

_Fundy shook his head. “Eret’s castle is the only place here Schlatt can’t enter without permission from him. And he’s already promised us protection.”_

_“What about you, Quackity?” The tremulous question made both adults freeze. ~~Quackity was barely an adult. Why was he counting himself as one?~~ “You’re coming with us, right?”_

_He shook his head quickly. “Schlatt needs someone here.”_

_“Why can’t it be George?” Tubbo’s voice rose in anger and slight hysteria. He knew what was going to happen. They all did. Fundy bit his lip. “Schlatt wouldn’t hurt him!”_

_They both knew that was the truth. Tubbo was young, but he wasn’t stupid. But George was off sorting out problems between different servers. George wasn’t reachable. “I know.” Quackity’s voice wobbled. “But he’s not here for now. And I’m the next best person.”_

_Tubbo surprised him by shooting forward and wrapping his skinny arms around Quackity, who returned the hug hesitantly. “Promise you’ll come back after you’ve talked to him.”_

_He froze on the spot, stomach plummeting to the floor. “You know I can’t do that, kid,” he whispered._

_“Try.”_

_“Okay.” The word came out as soft as an exhale. “I’ll try.” He detached himself gently, standing back up. Tubbo grabbed Fundy’s hand, staring at the floor. “Safe travels, you two.”_

_And Fundy, glancing back up, ears flicking in apprehension, squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he mumbled._ ‘At your bed’ _were the words that weren’t uttered, but they both knew what he meant. The implications were clear._

_“Go.”_

_And they did, leaving him standing outside, cold breeze tickling his face._

_Squaring his shoulders, Quackity walked back into the dragon’s den, climbing up the stairs, all the way to Schlatt’s office. He knocked twice on the door, legs like jelly and ready to bolt._

_“Come in.” Schlatt’s gravelly voice reached him, made his heart rate spike for a second. He pushed open the door, face scrunching at the pungent odour of alcohol in the air. Schlatt sat at his desk, the place littered with empty bottles. Glass shards were scattered around the perimeter of the room. He must’ve thrown the bottles at the walls._

_“Sir?” Quackity asked, trying to keep his voice from shaking._

_Schlatt gestured at the seat before him, looking disturbingly calm. “Sit down, won’t you. Pour yourself a glass.” He pushed a bottle of whiskey toward him as he took a seat._

_Quackity bit his lip. “I’m not old enough to, Schlatt.”_

_He slammed a hand on the table, and the bottles clinked. Quackity’s breathing stuttered. “Fucking do as you’re told for once!” So he poured himself a drink and took a polite sip of it, wincing at the acrid taste and the burn as it slipped down his throat. “Do you know why you’re here?”_

_Quackity shook his head. “No sir.”_

_The president laughed giddily. “Fucking stupid, aren’t you?”_

_He waited expectantly for an answer. “Yes sir,” Quackity mumbled, bile rising in his throat._

_Schlatt nodded approvingly. “Did you hear what Tubbo did?” Not waiting for an answer, he pressed on. “My right hand man. He betrayed me. Can you believe that?” Quackity could. He’d been thinking about it every day. He took another swig from the bottle he had, clutched in his hand. “I gave him_ everything _, Quack. Anything he asked for, I got it to him. Did I ever lay a hand on him?”_

 _“No sir.”_ I would’ve killed you if you had, _he thought._

_“No! No I didn’t. But then he goes off and talks to that fucking Tommy kid.” The sentence ended in a hiss. “I—fuck Quack, what do I do now?”_

_“I don’t know, sir.”_

_Schlatt sighed. “You never know anything. Why do I bother?” He paused for a second, scrutinising Quackity’s face, causing him to shift in his seat. “Are you hiding something from me?”_

_“Never, sir!” The answer came out, too quick, too incredulous to be believable._

_“Right.” He hummed thoughtfully. “So you wouldn’t object to organising an execution for Tubbo then?”_

_The wind got knocked right out of Quackity’s lungs. He blanched, trying to formulate words that refused to form in his stunned mind. “What?” he asked, hoping he’d heard incorrectly._

_“You heard what I said, Quack. Organise the kid’s execution.” A cruel smile graced his face. “Make it hurt.”_

_That wasn’t a question. That was an order. If it had been anything else, Quackity would’ve been inclined to do it. But Tubbo was too young for this, too innocent. He didn’t deserve this._

Better me than him.

_His mind was made up. “No.”_

_“No?”_

_“I won’t do this. You can manipulate me and threaten me and kill me all you want. I will not do this for you.” His voice didn’t shake for once. And for the first time, he felt clarity. Peace._

_Schlatt grit his teeth. “This isn’t a choice, Quackity.”_

_“I don’t care. I’ve made my choice on the matter. I won’t organise the murder of a sixteen-year-old.”_

_“Why are you acting like this all of a sudden?”_

_His fists clenched. “He’s a kid. He just wanted to see his best fucking friend, who, may I add Mr President,” he spat with as much contempt as he could muster, “you kicked out. If, for a second, this surprises you, then I’m not the dumb one here, am I?” His mind was screaming at him again, shrieking and crying out and telling him to run far away before Schlatt killed him._

_The president stood up, chair screeching against the wooden panels of the floor as it moved back. The sound chilled Quackity to his very bones, but he stared up into those cold, merciless eyes. “You really wanna do this right now? Remember your place, Quackity. Do as I say.”_

_“We won this election together, Schlatt!” Quackity hissed. “You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me!”_

_“Touché.” He prowled forward, but Quackity stood his ground stubbornly. “Go fucking do it, Quackity. I need to arrange a search for our little troublemaker.”_

_His voice stuck in his throat. “No. I won’t let you.”_

_The punch came in so fast he couldn’t have possibly predicted it, catching him on the cheek and sending him stumbling a few steps away. His beanie hung loosely, drooping to one side, and he raised a hand to fix it, ignoring the pain and his pounding heart. “You’re really getting on my nerves here.”_

_Quackity stared the devil down. “You can’t make me do this. Do what you want to me, but you won’t_ touch _Tubbo.”_

_“Fine then.” The anger was replaced by smooth indifference as Schlatt grabbed him by the upper arm, fingernails digging into his skin, and dragged him out of the office. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want to you.”_

_Dragging him down the stone steps into the dungeons. Down, down, down, where no one could hear him scream. His legs stumbled and shook, catching on the steps. Only Schlatt’s hold on his arm stopped him from tumbling down the rest of the way. He did his best not to beg for mercy, already imagining a variety of different ways Schlatt could make him suffer._

_Quackity was not afraid of death, but he was afraid of Schlatt._

_They arrived at one of the six cells he knew to exist down there, deep underground. Schlatt let go all of a sudden. “Lay down,” he said softly. “On your stomach. And stay there.”_

_What else could Quackity do?_

_With a start, he realised that he wasn’t making good on his promise to Tubbo. He wouldn’t come back to him after this. He’d be stuck in a bed sleeping off respawn sickness for a week straight. Quackity wasn’t stupid at all. When he laid himself down and the cell door locked behind Schlatt who came in dragging something heavy and distinctly metal behind him, he knew that this was it._

Better me then him.

_It sounded stupid to his ears, a desperate ray of comfort for the hours ahead._

_Schlatt dropped down onto his knees, landing on Quackity’s back. He cried out, going ignored by the president who grabbed his wrists and forced them behind his back, binding them together with rough rope. Then, he started ripping at his suit jacket and his shirt underneath it, finally shredding the wing layer. His left one burst free, nearly smacking Schlatt in the face._

_He gripped it hard, wrenching it outwards so it stretched and Quackity screamed at the sudden movement which set his muscles on fire. Something cold settled at the base of the wing, a few inches above where skin met feathers. “Schlatt,” he breathed softly, whole body trembling and straining slightly to get free. “Schlatt, please—”_

_“Your fucking fault, pal.”_

_And all Quackity could think was ‘better me then him better me then him better me then him,” while tears of fear slipped their way down his face and dropped onto the stone below._

_And then Schlatt began to saw and Quackity couldn’t think at all._

_He wasn’t sure how much later it was. Time was muddled in memory. He remembered the steady flow of blood from the two gaping holes in his back, the blinding agony that filled his brain with white noise so that he couldn’t possibly think of anything. Curled up on the ground in a puddle of his own, freezing blood, clothes soaked in the stuff, Quackity stared straight ahead with glassy eyes that couldn’t quite comprehend the world around him. Right at the two wings, white feathers stained crimson, pinned to the wall in front of him with nails._

_His wings._

_Quackity had no energy to do anything more then lie there and wait for blood loss to take its toll. He hoped Tubbo was safe._

_Soft footsteps, not the usual_ click-clack _of Schlatt’s dress shoes, made their way down. Quackity relaxed somewhat. How much worse could it get?_

_The footsteps stopped and a string of curses erupted from the owner’s mouth as they sped over to Quackity’s side. Not touching. He was glad for that. He wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to be touched again._

_He didn’t immediately recognise it. He heard the words though, but just barely over the static in his ears. “What the fuck did he do to you?” the voice whispered. Faintly, he registered the clink of bottles and hoped desperately that they weren’t healing potions. But when he heard the distinct sound of a bottle uncorking and the scent that filled the air wasn’t watermelon but something more woody, he relaxed somewhat._

_Liquid was poured over the two wounds. They stung to high hell and back. Quackity let out a whimpering gasp which melted into a surprised sound as the pain just leeched away._

_Whatever this person had given him began to numb the injuries._

_Hands were on him again, moving his head and torso, flipping him so that he couldn’t see the (broken, stupid, useless, irreparable) wings anymore, he lay on his side on someone’s lap. There was blue fabric and the arm cradling him was pale._

_“Geo-George,” Quackity slurred._

_Fingers ran through his hair. “Yeah. I’m right here, okay? You can-you’re free to drift off, Quackity.” The words were awkward and clunky, but he knew what he meant. “I’m sorry for not being here.”_

_Instead of replying, Quackity sighed once and let his eyes slip shut._

_(Tubbo talked a lot to him while he was still in that comatose state that respawn so often left you in. He never left Quackity’s bedside for the full week here was asleep, chattering on and on about whatever took to his fancy._

_“George punched Schlatt in the face today. I wish you were there. It would’ve made you really happy.”_

_“Niki gave me some cookies! I’m going to save one for you for when you wake up!”_

_“We moved to Eret’s castle with you. Your respawn was still set to a bed in the White House, and Fundy thought it wasn’t safe.”_

_“Fundy took your beanie off because he thinks you got a fever and he wanted to take your temperature. You look weird without it, Big Q.”_

_“I told Tommy what happened. He’s been asking all about you ever since.”_

_“Schlatt isn’t mad at me anymore! He says that something you said really got to him. But I’m still not really allowed to speak to Tommy.”_

_“George and Fundy won’t tell me what happened to you. But it has to have been bad, right? I’m sorry for all this.”_

_“I-I overheard George talking about you. Why-why would he do that to you? Oh god, oh god Quackity I’m so sorry!”_

_Quackity was never alone. He appreciated that. But when he woke up, it was Fundy who happened to be with him. Quackity just reached out and grabbed the black jacket, burying his face in it and willing the tears to go away. Later, he ran his hands through the feathers of his broken, malnourished wings again and again, examining the new, pink scars Schlatt had left on them._

_The next day, Schlatt announced the Festival._

* * *

Quackity’s mouth had gone dry, head spinning with phantom pains and _his_ hands on his wings. He took a subconscious step away from Phil. “I-” he begun, eyes wide and head snapping to every shadow that moved. _He’s here he’s here he’s here he’s here—_ “I gotta go,” he mumbled, heart hammering against his ribcage.

“Wait,” Phil said, walking forward. “Quackity, I’m sorry, just _breathe_ for me!”

“No, no, I really—I can’t do this I gotta go!” Quackity choked out, glancing around, at the darkening sky and the first few drops of rain before shooting up into the air. Phil’s yells followed him, carried by the wind.

 _‘Coward!’_ his mind screamed at him as he flapped through the whipping winds and the rain coming in thick and fast, obscuring his vision. But if he had to choose between being a coward and being Schlatt’s plaything, well. He’d already made that decision.

He couldn’t go to the country yet. He needed air, desperately, so he climbed higher and higher into the air, gasping like a fish out of water at the combined effort it took to navigate the wind and the ache in his wings. Ender, he couldn’t even fucking fly right.

Then something sharp hit his wing, and he felt stabbing pain shoot through his whole right side. “Fuck!” he cried out, tipping dangerously. That same wing was hit again, and Quackity could see the arrows protruding from the once-pristine feathers. He fell, down, down, down, crashing through leaves and branches and treetop, landing in a heap on the forest floor.

There was movement behind the trees. Quackity’s head whipped around, trying to gauge his position and how many enemies surrounded him. He saw a flash of mottled grey skin and drab, brown robes and knew he was caught in the middle of a raid. Just his fucking luck.

There was murmuring among them. “Who?” one of the asked, tongue seemingly unfamiliar with English.

“I-I’m not here to hurt anyone.” He tried to sound confident, tried to sound braver than he felt. “I gotta get home.” He’d forgotten to bring a weapon in his haste to get out of bed that morning.

Two of them, a vindicator with an axe and an evoke in fancy robes, emerged from the shadows. The axe was swung down and pointed at his throat. “Who?” he (?) repeated.

“My name-my name is Qu-Quackity.”

They turned to each other and talked in their own language, and Quackity cursed himself for not taking the opportunity to learn it when he should have. _Stupid_.

The decision that they seemed to come to was not favourable for Quackity at all.

An arrow, fired from somewhere at his right, skewered his left wing, the arrowhead burrowing into the damp ground.

He _screamed._ One wing flapped against the ground uselessly, and blood trickled slowly out of the wounds that were already there, further aggravating them. The arrows were poisoned. No single arrow could hurt like _this._ “Wait!” he yelped. “Wait, please! I don’t have anything!”

The vindicator raised his axe, aiming for the wing that was pinned down. In a fit of raw panic, he ripped it straight out of the ground, taking the arrow with him and groaned as he scuttled back, wings curled around his body protectively. “Stay!” the evoker insisted as the vindicator stalked forward.

“ _Get away from him!”_

Phil zipped out of nowhere it seemed, brandishing his diamond axe. The first two were down before Quackity could even blink. Three more came rushing out, probably hoping to overwhelm him. He squeezed his eyes shut, feathers quivering as the wet slashes filled the air.

And then there was silence and worried, gentle hands laying themselves on his shoulders. “Come on,” the voice sighed. “Let’s get you to Niki, yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

Phil’s hands paused and Quackity risked cracking an eye open. His face betrayed no annoyance, no anger. Just quiet concern as he scooped him up effortlessly, mindful of the injuries. “No. It was my fault for pushing. You weren’t ready to talk about it.”

Quackity shook his head. “It’s been months and I can’t…” Ender, he was so fucking frustrated with it all. Himself, his stupid wings, his mind that didn’t seem to understand that he was safe now. Most of all the power Schlatt still held over him. He hated that the most.

Phil shook his head solemnly. “No one expects for you to heal that quick after what you went through.” Despite the storm, he took to the air, flying as quickly as he could to civilisation. “You know, Wilbur still comes to me whenever he has nightmares. No matter what time it is, or how old he is, he will always do that.”

“That’s different—”

“How so?”

Quackity hesitates. “I-it was my fault. I helped Schlatt win those elections.”

“But you couldn’t have predicted what he’d turn into, could you?”

“No, but—”

“Quackity,” Phil interrupted kindly, “Schlatt was the one in the wrong here. He had no right to hurt you in that way.”

Quackity fell silent. This was information he already knew. But to hear it out of someone else’s mouth was something different. It was alien. “What if he comes back?”

There it was. The fear that had been haunting him since he left. The horrible, brutalising terror that consumed his nights and days with misery. Phil’s hold on him got slightly tighter. “I would never let that happen. He will never so much as look at you again, Quackity. I promise.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“No problems at all.”

* * *

(Niki had taken one look at Quackity when they landed at her house and had ordered him to sit on the couch in the living room and not move. She’d gently cleaned the cuts while Phil called Tubbo and Tommy, who’d arrived just as the last arrow was being plucked out. Tubbo had immediately claimed the space next to Quackity, snuggling right up to him under the blanket. A whispered ‘I love you’ passed between the two along with mutual understanding. Tommy sat resolutely on Quackity’s other side, rambling on and on about the things he’d do to anything that dared get close. Niki passed out a plate of cinnamon rolls. With the storm raging outside, no one bothered to go home. Quackity fell asleep like that, but was woken up with a jolt by twisted images of goat horns and bloody saws. Tubbo, still half-asleep, grabbed his hand and mumbled nonsense as he laid himself on top of him. “He won’t get you,” he muttered, eyes drooping shut. And surrounded by those people, by Tommy hanging off the couch, by Niki who’d dragged a mattress onto the floor and had collapsed onto it, by Tubbo who kept the demons away, by Phil curled up with Niki who gave him a chance, he made a realisation.

Quackity wasn’t stupid or worthless or pathetic. He was loved. He could fly. And that was all that mattered.)

**Author's Note:**

> ngl, this one hurt to write boys  
> thank you for reading! leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed :)


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